


An Echo of the Sky

by ObsidianEagle



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Blood and Violence, Dragon King Magnus, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Game of Thrones-esque, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-06 18:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianEagle/pseuds/ObsidianEagle
Summary: Songs of war play, glasses clink from celebrations, wealth is a way out of pesky situations --But the dragons, they are a power no man or woman can control, not until Magnus Bane. They are a delicate ecosystem that Magnus has sworn to protect. He's the Dragon King, a prophecy once written now real, war after war calling his name, winning against mad Kings who strive for the power he has, that no one has but him.In a world fuelled by the greed for power, sometimes the heart is forgotten, and all that remains is an echo of what could have been.Skyrim // GoT AU





	An Echo of the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey! time to finish this story once and for all!
> 
> this is a skyrim/GoT inspired fic, and partially just because i heckin love dragons, so why not combine the two together I guess? and no, there are no dragon shifters or people falling in love with dragons - dragons are dragons, that's it.
> 
> some of you may recognise the title, and yes, this is the third time i'm going to try and write this AU, and I PROMISE you this is going to be the last time. It's all planned, start to finish, and knowing me I'll add extras in here and there, but there is no excuse not for me to finish this anymore
> 
> so, HERE IT IS! It's gritty, unforgiving, angsty, and violent - the explicit warning is not for the smut, i'll tell you that now. (please don't be angry at me) but there are going to be soft moments, i promise you that too
> 
> i'll post warnings at the beginning of every chapter, so if you're sensitive or don't want to read certain things, make sure you read the notes beforehand.
> 
> remember to tag #aeotsFic on twitter/tumblr if you're doing reactions so I can find them! :D

_A boy born from fire, yet his heart has only known of cold,_

_A boy born to a heavy name, but he is not bold,_

_A smile from his only friend, but her eyes no longer blink,_

_A hope for a better future, yet his dreams only sink,_

_In a world where blood runs wealthier than gold, how will they change the sum of their toll?_

 

\- - - - -

**A   T I M E   A G O**

Once a playground, it’s now Magnus’ only cover.

Not even the branches or bushes that he misses pushing with his hands slow him down, bracing through the awful sting when a thorn scratches his arm. Every second counts, every misplaced footing costs him distance, and right now he feels like he needs an ocean between him and those shouts to feel any sort of safety.

Lush green, tall trees, sprinkles of sunlight reaching through the canopy above --

And now that green feels sickly, nauseating, claustrophobic.

All those hours he spent here watching birds build nests every year, all those sketches he did of new mythical creatures in his little book that he left behind -- it all feels like years ago now. Whatever this forest was before, it’s nothing now, just an obstacle between him and whatever lies on the other side.

If he even makes it.

Magnus pushes mind and body, swinging his arms back and forth in a stride when there’s an open stretch, holding them out in front when he needs to block the brunt of whatever foliage lies in his way. His lungs reach for air, mixing with the quick stomps of his feet, combining together to create this frightening song of fear, desperation.

And yet, knowing every turn and secret this forest has doesn’t help him, it feels strange now, an obstacle in the way for what's ahead. He’s only young, a small boy in a big, scary world -- but that won’t stop fate from testing him before he can even think about his future.

The most haunting feeling is that he can’t see or feel any living being. Usually the forest would be vibrant, overflowing with life and magic, guiding Magnus to see the most spectacular things - but none of that is present right now. Cold clings to the air, fog hanging low and obscuring his vision.

Thump.

His foot catches on a rock, throwing Magnus forward and landing face first in the dirt.

Every fibre of his physical body screams for him to stop running, to take a few seconds to regain some stamina. But there’s no way he can afford to take a breather, to let his fears catch up to him and his worst nightmare to grip his throat.

But the ground is so warm, and deep down he almost wishes that he could just hide, to wait out into the night and hope he gives up.

 _“You swine! Get back here!”_ shouts the man, so loud that Magnus can hear it through the dirt.

His throat sounds so dry, voice scratchy from screaming at the top of his lungs, fueled by a hatred Magnus wishes never surfaced.

That voice is enough to kick him into gear, pushing with all he has to rise to his feet. He stumbles twice, the second time looking back quickly as he uses a tree trunk for support.

“I know you’re here _boy!_ I can hear you running,” Magnus feels the shiver rake up his arms, goosebumps rising, hairs standing on end, “I knew I was right from the moment you were born!”

And there it is, the pain that weighs Magnus down, the fear and hatred he can’t control. This was never his fault, he never chose to be this, he never wanted any of this.

Footsteps -- they’re getting closer.

He has to run, now. He won’t get another chance, and his mother, his angelic mother -- she would want him to keep running.

So he does, using the tree to push himself, coming close to falling again from the desperation strength he uses, almost pushing himself too far forward. Every step is another that drains him, not just physically either.

It doesn’t feel like he can breathe, every inhale and exhale just another trick in his active mind, that in reality he’s suffocating in the fog, the dread, the darkness that’s consuming his heart. The branches are like hands, trying to pull him in, make him suffocate for whatever he has done wrong.

But he’s done _nothing_ that feels wrong to him, _nothing_ that could drive a man to this insanity other than his own hatred. A hatred that drives that man’s every step, every scream and thunder of his voice that parts the forest, echoes of his words bouncing through the canopy like he’s soaring overhead.

Magnus doesn’t feel like he can escape, that everything he tries to do will result in failure.

He could hide, Magnus knowing every secret this forest holds, every beautiful sight, every cave where a wolf family resides. He knows it all, yet when his thoughts search for it, all he can hear is himself;

_RUN, RUN, RUN --_

It’s _deafening,_ the words spoken like his last, louder and louder until it becomes a jumble of white noise and horrifying silence.

All he can hear now is the harsh inhale and exhale of his own breathing, his footsteps crunching the leaves below vanishing like he’s not moving at all. But he is, he can _see_ the leaves fly and crumple below him. So why can’t hear it?

Has he already been caught, this being the afterlife? Cursed to replay his last mistake over again? And as those thoughts cascade through walls in his head, the sounds of his breathing vanish too, silence enveloping Magnus’ entire world.

The world around him slows as his foot catches on a rock again, tumbling into a ditch where mud pushes against his skin, rolling and rolling until his body collides with the boulder that stops him at the bottom.

It’s cold, down there, mud and rainwater soaking his clothes, slick from the rain of yesterday’s downpour.

And this, here, feels like his end.

His breathing comes back to him, staring up to the sky as the sun beats down on him, fingers lifeless in the dirt. Perhaps he doesn’t know everything about the forest, after all.

Pushing his lips together, Magnus feels time is still slow, an ache in his chest as the footsteps pound closer and closer, the sound dragged out to punish him even more. He wants to _scream,_ but he also has to stay quiet, burdened by the pain his body now calls out against, a sting heavy in his side.

 _You have to keep moving, you have to keep going_ were the thoughts inside his head, a pounding that’s louder than the footsteps. He _can’t,_ his body hurting beyond a pain he’s felt before, both mentally and physically.

It hurts because this feels like the end, yet it feels like he’s running for a freedom he’s always wanted. Confusion sticks to his already jumbled thoughts, trying to twitch his fingers that shake from the cold his body endures. Tears roll down his temples, lips pushed together as he trembles from the self hatred and fear of the inevitable.

One thing he promised his mother, was to never give up, to keep going -- to keep following the stars, and as long as the promise of night falls to bring them again, he will fight for as long as the gods allow.

And now, he’s stuck, footsteps of his fated enemy coming closer, stars hidden behind a blue and green sky. “I know where you are! _Fucking scum!_ Both of you! Both _you_ and your _mother!”_

Magnus grits his teeth, feeling a pulse of something inside his chest, the strike of a match.

How _dare_ he defile his mother’s name like that, to drag her through the dirt like this was her fault all along. It isn’t, it never was -- it was all Magnus, and that brings a tingling sensation to his fingers.

He has to keep fighting, to bring honour back to his mother’s name, to stop whatever evil that burns the earth with their hatred.

Another thing he promised his mother, was to never call upon his friend. She always believed in the stories, the whispers on the wind as they carry themselves through time. A prophecy written in stone, one his eyes remember from that book he keeps under the floorboards. His mother always told him to hide it so his father wouldn’t find it, and she always told him to hide his eyes, to not use the powers his friend bestowed him.

“Ever since that fire, I _knew_ there was something wrong with that baby -- you _demon!_ Answer for your sins!” his voice screams with the blood from his throat, the man’s veins popping from the vile clench of his muscles. A man fueled by such evil is not a man at all, but a coward, letting himself be consumed by the very things he curses Magnus for.

Magnus has to get up, he has to keep running.

Or he could fight, to show he won’t be afraid anymore.

He’s spent his life running from fear, to let the world map him through valleys like a river, to let the gods knit his path for him no matter how sharp the turn. Not anymore, not when he feels his body awaken with the sounds of the world around him.

Magnus parts his lips, the tears stop, and his fingers start to tingle with the heavy words on his tongue.

_“Draken.”_

A gold flourishes over the surface of his eyes, a heat cascading out from his chest like a chemical reaction, ages old magic swimming through his veins like a tidal wave.

The ground no longer feels cold, the water around him begins to boil -- and Magnus feels none of it.

“Help me, friend,” Magnus speaks again, whispering it to the sun above, the warmth now welcoming instead of exhausting, _“Be my light.”_

Swallowing, Magnus closes his eyes, fire brimming beneath his skin, pain healing itself as the sound of the footsteps stop. A moment of silence, a moment of freedom before the fate he feels warming his bones.

A silence before the thunderous, beckoning _roar_ that tumbles down the mountainside. It sends chills through Magnus, the force of the roar and the magic interwoven bending the trees to their absolute limit as the shockwave reaches out.

The man who was chasing him falls over before he can even block the sun above Magnus, shouting and cursing to the gods for turning against him, when they have never been on his side to begin with.

A roar of a god’s son, the raw heat of the magic it beckons setting fire to the forest.

Magnus’ reign had begun.

 

\- - - - -

**P R E S E N T   D A Y**

If you said that Alec was a completely different person a few years ago, his close family and friends would laugh. It feels like he’s always been like this, quiet and reserved, waiting with each breath for the worst possible outcome. Even Maryse raising him with hope he grows kind rather than rich, failed.

But it’s not riches that weigh Alec down, more so his duty. A duty to his father, the so called _King_ of this little patch of Earth -- the lands of Anamere. Let’s just say he’s not technically the boss of everyone, that’s the Clave, but in the lands where a Lightwood flag is raised, that’s his.

It’s _all_ his.

And how does Robert keep the land under wraps? To make his people bend the knee and make sure his life is the only one that matters?

Alec.

Every mission, every battle, every scout he needs to gain information on allies or potential enemies -- he sends Alec. Robert sends his own _son_ into danger, and all Alec does is say _yes father,_ walk out, and leave his mother thinking where she went wrong. He’s the trophy on the shelf, the threatening storm people can’t predict, a darkness that was a bright hope in his younger years.

Now all Maryse sees is a shell of what he once was -- he used to be her _son._

This isn’t her boy, her little Alec that spent more time reading books to his siblings than sharpening arrow tips. This isn’t her boy who smiled so big his jaw hurt after a day of play, not a constant frown or blank emotion that makes him look like an obedient dog.

Perhaps that’s all he is to Robert, a way out, or a way _in._

There’s a sickening concoction of what makes the world turn, at least in this day and age. Power and wealth, and if you have those two, plenty of it, then that person is set for life. Or they’re set for however long it takes for another jealous, hungry person to slit their throats and take it for themselves.

It doesn’t seem to be a world where people can stop and think, where deep understanding is lost in the taps of a bar, or a one night fling with that woman who had pretty eyes. These people have thrown the very premise of imagination out the window, where wonder and creativity no longer strive humanity forward.

And what does?

Blood, metal shaped in circles, liquid that smells like vomit, dark hours and dangerous alleyways -- but it doesn’t have to be like this.

Alec hopes, he dreams, because _god,_ sometimes he doesn’t see a way out of the cage he’s trapped in. Frankly, it’s the only hope Alec holds on too, that the battle he can see coming won’t happen. That somehow, fate will give him mercy for the years he’s suffered, for the years he’s looked back and thought about how it could be different --

How everything, even Alec, could have been different, something _more._

And yet here he stands, rolling an arrow between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the pointed tip that glints thanks to the burning star lightyears away. Light beams through his window, a warm collection of orange as it reaches through. Alec can barely feel it, but his eyes squint when the glimmer of the arrow shines back at him.

Something so small, so finely tuned to fly through the air, is in turn something that could take a soul, to set itself alight and create a larger flame once it hits home. There was nothing more heartbreaking than seeing Alec hit that first bullseye, because for Maryse that was the catalyst, a telltale sign that Robert had found his champion. It was too early, then, but Maryse can never forget the way Robert smiled so grim that his skin started to peel away, revealing the true demon that lay underneath.

It hurt even more to confirm her initial thoughts, a thought so generally cold and seemingly _impossible yet possible_ at the same time being brought to light.

Two years ago, Isabelle walked in on Robert cheating with two other women.

But Alec didn’t change, almost not at all.

By then, Robert had already broke him beyond repair. Broken in his family's eyes, but a stone cold warrior to lead them into the next age in Robert’s.

The only thing that did change about Alec, is that he no longer addressed Robert as King, merely father, and Maryse could start to smile for once.

Not in a sickening way, or a smile that tried to hide that last drop of will falling to her feet that Alec still trusted him -- but _hope._ Alec, somewhere, is still in that body that looks like her son, that despite everything and the years of missions and silent nods to engage in conversation, he was finally seeing sense.

He was finally doing something for himself, and perhaps all along, they’ve been wrong. Alec’s always been there, just stripped away of his freedom, doing it to protect the people he loves. And it shouldn’t be like that, but it is.

Maryse will catch glimpses of Alec and Jace talking, a few smiles breaking out, or Alec helping Isabelle decide what dress to wear for _another_ date, but he never speaks to Maryse. He doesn’t even send a look her way, trying to avoid her as much as he possibly can before it becomes futile.

At least not until today.

As two knocks sound on his door, Alec takes a moment to breathe in, feeling the weight of the arrow in his hand.

He’s noticed this himself, trying to ground a difference between reality and dreams. Sometimes he gets lost in the perfection his dreams create, that his mind tries to split itself from the present entirely. Maryse has always taken Alec to love sleep, but never as much as he does now, being so spare in quantity.

Some nights he can’t even forget reality, haunted by his mistakes, questions of _what if._ They’re like ping pong balls as the walls close in, the distance between shortening the time Alec has before he can answer the question until it’s just a jumble of words, letters and senses. So, he does this, holding an arrow and letting every sense he has focus on it.

The feel of metal so smooth yet sharp on his calloused fingertips, the incredibly accurate weight distribution of its forgery, the smell of freshly forged metal by the heat of a dragon’s fire. And then the feathers towards the back, dripped in red paint to symbol what kingdom the arrow belongs to.

Once again, it belongs to Robert. The arrow forged from sweat and elbow grease, simply taken without thought of what it could mean to someone. For Alec, it’s the only thing he has left.

Surely, his siblings hate him for continuously following his father, but _god forbid_ they were in Alec’s place. He’s doing this for them, and deep down he knows that he has no other option, no other avenue to explore.

Because this is it, he’s sealed his fate -- and fate is fickle, heavy and unpredictable.

It doesn’t, however, mean it’s impossible to _change._

“Alec?”

He’s forgotten her voice, it seems, because when she speaks it feels like he’s home for the first time in _years._ How could he have let this happen? To forget his own mother's voice? She read countless stories to him, taught him about the world, sparking that creativity and imagination a child thrives on at such a young age.

Everyone grows up, but Alec barely had a childhood once Robert found out what weapon calls to him most. Maryse tried to tell Robert no, that his duties to the family could wait until Alec was an adult. The world was peaceful, only a small crackling thunder of battle on the horizon, and even with that, Maryse didn’t want Alec to be forced into a life he had no choice over. She tried her best to let Alec be a kid for as long as Robert would let her, but as Alec hit 16, already the best archer in the kingdom, his fate was sealed.

Perhaps it’s her own fault that Alec strived for perfection, so did Maryse once. But he’s not a machine, he has flaws and human error weighing heavily against him, a factor sometimes people forget when they’re trying too hard to prove something.

Alec, being the happy kid he was, felt he wasn’t making his father proud. Robert guilt tripped him, he guilt tripped them _all._

Because if they knew Alec was going to be like this when Robert first gave him the chance to shoot a bow and arrow, barely being able to hold a kid’s version -- they would’ve never let him. Either way, both sides equal Alec not choosing his life, always pushed and pulled to either end of the spectrum.

There’s no middle ground, and there never will be.

Placing the arrow down, Alec braces himself to see a face he’s been trying to hide from. With the news his father gave him this morning, he fears what pain and hatred he’ll see her face morph to.

“Mother,” Alec all but whispers, gently turning himself around to see how achingly scared she holds herself, “It’s -- good to see you.”

And he watches her lips shakes, her hands tremble as they hold each other in front of her stomach, almost like she can’t believe that the man in front of him was once her little boy. Her _little Alec._

“My son, _my beautiful son,”_ Maryse takes a gentle step forward, then another, and then one more when Alec doesn’t seem to stop her, “What has he done to you?”

Alec feels the bullet knock through his chest, wedged somewhere between his heart and his lungs, looking down in defeat. He knows what he’s lost now, and now he’ll never get that chance again. Robert has essentially shortened his life, cut the string, tied the knot and shipped him off to battle.

“I--,” and Alec’s lips shake, holding back a sob that only stays back thanks to years and years of pain tolerance. Deep down, he always knew his mother and siblings were a direct weakness, no wonder Robert knew that too, making sure to distract Alec from ever getting the chance to talk to them, “I have news for you.”

Ignoring the question out of pain and guilt, Alec almost kicks himself for doing so. He has to be quick, to speak words he needs too and hope the gods above can forgive him for causing his mother so much mental torment.

Maryse had hoped this was Alec finally breaking through, to see beneath the years of tar and metal tainting his skin and bones. Alas, she hoped for too much, being hit square in the face with a reality that it was Alec all along, just hiding so that his siblings and mother didn’t have to hurt.

Because if they saw the real Alec winning competitions, battles, training - they would have seen a broken man who ran before he could walk. They’d be able to see the pain on his face, the grit of his teeth when Robert made him fight with simply arrows, catching the edge of a sword that scarred him. Yet he hid it all, the pain, the cruel mental battles Robert pushed him through -- but Alec always remained, a last little drop of soul that clung on.

Why did the world have to be so cruel? Why did it have to be so cruel to a mere boy who wanted to study the world -- to be happy?

Swallowing her doubts, Maryse nods, knowing that even if Alec wants to fall to his knees and apologise for ignoring her all these years -- this may be their last talk.

A day ago, Alec won a trial, a _very_ important trial. “They’re promoting me, the Clave,” he begins, his hands going behind his back like a soldier would stand, feet slightly parted as he struggles to look his mother in the eye, “I’m going to be their Champion.”

 _“No,”_ her voice feels ghostly, like the news drained every ounce of life force from her blood, “They can’t do this to you, you have a choice.”

“Choice or not, I won every battle against every other fighter put forward by the kingdoms. I was the last man standing, the Clave see me as the key to their plan.”

Maryse knew he won the trial, and she already knows what that entails because he won. That doesn’t mean she won’t deny it, a simmering hatred clawing beneath her chest. “Exactly!” she takes a step forward, then another, gripping Alec’s shirt, “This is _their_ plan, what about yours? What about _your_ life?”

Alec grits his teeth, almost snarling at the way she speaks. Of _course_ he’s thought of that, but it’s too late to turn back. He couldn’t have faked his loss, Robert knows how good he is, and he wasn’t surprised to find out Robert became richer that day because of the amount of bets he placed on Alec winning.

The Herondale’s Kingdom, Blackthorns -- every other Kingdom under control of the Clave, their champion, their best fighter fell to Alec’s hand.

“I--,” he goes to say there’s no time for him, that his life was over the minute he hit that bullseye, but he doesn’t have the heart to say that to his mother’s face, “I never had one. I’m _sorry, mother.”_

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Alec tries to smile, but all it does is make him choke.

Maryse pulls him into a hug, grasping the back of his shirt, sobbing and soaking tear stains into his shoulder. They both know what this entails, what the Clave plans to do now they have a Champion.

Alec signed a death wish, to stare a dragon army right in the face and try to bring it down with a bow and arrow. He could laugh at the stupidity of it, how the Clave thinks he can take the heart of the Dragon King, but there’s no turning back now.

Even if they know of the Dragon King’s magic, how he could probably snap Alec’s arms with one little flick of his finger, they’re still going to send him. How _foolish_ are they to believe a warrior as strong as Alec could ignore that? Do they think he can _dodge_ it?

He’s grown up hating the dragons, viscous creatures who see no end to destruction, and the Clave want that power for themselves.

The only way to do that, is to rip the heart of the Dragon King from his chest, to give the power to whoever wants possession and control of an entire species. Alec doesn’t see how the Clave would do a better job than the current Dragon King, but that man is a mystery. They know of the Downworlder council, how across the ocean that splits their two continents lays more kingdoms, dragons, mythical creatures of legend -- but here, the Clave control everything.

Every ounce of power is theirs, and now, Alec is their property.

 

\- - - - -

Night hovers over the coastal Kingdom, horse given to a stable boy as Alec arrives at the Clave’s royal castle. Its spire reaches to the clouds, their flag still alive thanks to the coastal winds and chilled air. It took around three hours for Alec to travel here on his trusty steed, Alec raising him by himself. That was also part of Robert’s training, to care for another life, a companion in battle.

All he knows, is that when Alec walks through those large front doors, he’s going to be the leading arrow in a battle scheduled horrifyingly soon. That’s what they have in mind, or that’s what Alec has heard from the heated arguments between Clave officials back at the Lightwood’s kingdom. He may be obeying Robert’s every word, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own objectives he wants to play out. It’s obvious to see Robert is a copy of every other person who leads the Clave -- bigoted, ego centric, slightly overweight from alcohol and a need to prove themselves to Valentine.

Alec finds them all sickening, but Alec has power now, he has a voice.

With it, he could change things, but he needs to see how this plan plays out before he begins risking his own hind. He needs to be smart, one step ahead in the shadows, to scheme right under his father’s nose and use what he’s taught him against the very teacher. Despite his very limited lifespan now due to his new title, Alec will still try, he has too. Alec feels sick at betraying him this way, because he’s still his father, but at this point he’s learnt enough about his father to know he isn’t the proud man he makes himself out to be. He’s more like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Hands behind his back, Alec walks into the council room. A hood hides most of his face in shadow, bow hung over his shoulder, arrow pack sitting at home on his back. Robert gleams as he enters, Alec hearing the mumbles of his gloating already as he approaches the table.

He stops short, feet spread, hands behind his back as he bows, addressing his leaders formally.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the council,” Robert begins, his voice thick with self entitled gluttony, patting Alec on the shoulder, “My son, Alexander Gideon Lightwood -- your worthy, deserving Champion.”

Alec watches the faces of the Clave light up one by one, lifting their hands to give a short applause. Putting on a fake smile, Alec bows again, showing his thanks without speaking.

“A fine warrior!” one of the men speaks, another agreeing with the cheer and raise of his beer, “Handsome too! My daughters are looking for marriage, may that interest your son Robert?” and Alec _cringes,_ swallowing the _no_ he wants to scream.

Of course Robert nods, agreeing, of _course_ he does. He hasn’t even been in the room for more than ten seconds and the power he thought he had is still ripped away by his father’s control.  They don’t seem to even care to get on with the plan, and Alec doesn’t see why discussing marriages when they’re on the brink of a battle does them any good.

It’s not like Robert has given Alec a chance to explore, to find a relationship or a quick fling. He’s given him women, knocked on his door a few nights to find two or sometimes even three lovely women smiling and blushing at the prince. Alec simply smiles and tells them to leave after he thinks the coast is clear, telling them his apologies and that he must train.

Some of them look hurt at the rejection, others relieved.

Alec was scared they would spread rumours, that there’s something wrong with him or his standards are so high -- that he’s basically an _asshole._ But they can’t, controlled by the fear of what Robert will do if they start spreading rumours about his son.

He wouldn’t be surprised if the Lightwood kingdom and many others see him as a split of Robert, following the same personality. It makes him sick to the stomach to think that people would, and standing here now, he’s almost certain they do.

“What do you say, my son?” Robert asks, clasping Alec’s shoulder and squeezing, knocking him out of his turmoil.

“Mission first,” he replies, teeth almost glued together from his annoyance, “Relationships _after.”_

The way Alec speaks, so cold and automated, the council gain these wicked grins. Robert’s done well to give them such a warrior, a man who focuses head over heart, ignoring emotions and practically deleting them from his code.

“Ah, what did I expect from our finest warrior?” continues the man, taking a sip of his beer before continuing, “But surely a warrior should indulge every now and then for their hard work?”

 _Yeah, you would, you fucking dirty --_ Alec cuts his owns thoughts off before an arrow notches itself between the man's eyes.

It’s better to not get himself riled, but Alec can’t _stand_ this man, and every time he goes to open his lips, Alec feels his fists clench. No, he won’t indulge because he has a _job_ to do, a job that requires putting his very existence on the line because these egotistic leaders do the _indulging_ for him instead.

Robert swears he feels his son boiling up, so he covers for him, however not exactly in the best way.

“Of course! He was rewarded handsomely for his battle royale win.”

 _He was,_ not _Alec_ or _my son._ Perhaps he doesn’t want Alec to outshine him, to let him be the better man simply because he wins fights Robert can’t. He gives the orders, tells him to sink or swim, and Alec obeys. Robert sits by as Alec does all the work, takes the glory and only gives it to Alec when people mention it. The Lightwood King can barely make toast, let alone execute a mission, and he _believes_ he can but he will never execute them flawlessly like Alec.

And that reward? Alec turned them away, spending it with Max instead, reading a book to him.

It was a surprise for his little brother, not having spoken to him in what seems like years. Alec knew that once he leaves home, there’s a high chance of him not coming back. With that in mind, he wanted Max’s last memory of him to be a peaceful, homely one.

It’s a memory that calms Alec also, but it’s broken when he feels tension stick to his skin like tar.

The room desolates to an awkward silence, the man that previously talked so much placing his glass back down and looking towards another set of doors.

They open slowly, a man being led by two guards dressed from head to toe in black armour. The Clave’s emblem is painted on their chests in gold, glimmering from the candles staged around the room. As the man steps out the shadows of the hallway, Alec gulps.

Valentine, in all his devilish, smirking glory as he sets eyes on Alec.

“It seems the answer to our prayers has arrived.” he directs those words at Alec, hands behind his back as he walks around the council’s table to where Alec and Robert stand.

_Prayers. Gods._

Amusing, really, how the Clave denies the existence of the gods written in centuries old books, but they believe in their own. They believe the gods are humans, yet in this world, Alec believes them to be dragons.

And yes, he hates them, which is why he never prays to them, only hopes, hoping they’ll give him mercy that the beasts never seem to give him. A fickle thought indeed, but Alec doesn’t have any other options. If they’re meant to be good, then they can prove it to Alec by listening, to help guide his bow, his heart, his mind.

None of that has happened -- but every step he takes doesn’t feel like his own, and that’s enough to hold on.

Valentine looks incredibly sharp, and it confuses Alec. He’s a drastic contrast to everyone else in the room, actually looking calm and collected, powerful in his stride and confident in his own presence. Stories really don’t do the horror justice. Compared to the others, yellow teeth, rotten breaths, Valentine is shockingly the best dressed. Alec has only ever seen him at the end of hallways when he was younger, never too much of his face, just the black of his clothing and the golden Clave emblem embroidered into the fabric. But his voice, he remembers it, almost too well, like life was preparing him in some factors to deal with the fear he brings.

“Alec Lightwood, heir to the Lightwood throne and Champion of the Clave,” Valentine grins, and Alec tries his best to keep stable eye contact, but Alec feels like he’s burning if he keeps it too long, “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Biting his tongue, Alec doesn’t want to reply. He wants to keep quiet, to nod and get this over with.

So Alec nods, and Valentine frowns in reply, voice thick with venom, “Did you lose your tongue in battle, boy? Speak to your _rightful_ King.”

 _“Yes,_ my _King._ It does.”

_No it doesn’t._

If he notices Alec’s bluff, Valentine shows no sign of knowing it. He probably doesn’t care, seeing as Alec might never see these faces again, and he can’t even feel relieved about that.

As the guards lock the door, a silence falls over the council table, Alec remaining stood at the end of it. Robert doesn’t even give him one last glance, his job done, his name forever in the Clave’s good books because he raised a warrior for them. Beers forgotten, casual chat ignored.

Alec suddenly regrets holding that bow, piercing that bullseye.

If he didn’t, he would be back home with Maryse, with Isabelle and Max. But he isn’t, and no magic can ever change that.

His fate is sealed, and as the skin of his fingertips begins to feel dry, more so than usual, he could cry. Whatever warmth he felt before, whatever smile he smiled years ago when he was younger -- he doesn’t remember it.

It doesn’t even feel like it happened, at all.

Valentine sits in his silver chair, his laidback presence making Alec fear every word that’s going to come out of his mouth.

“Very well, now the short and sweet introductions are over,” his eyes set themselves on Alec, already thinking of the victories they’ll gain with him at the lead. Alec isn’t as confident, he doesn’t see how anyone could be, “Shall we begin?”


End file.
